


The Truest Reflection

by circlique



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, M/M, POV Alternating, Suicide mention, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circlique/pseuds/circlique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night after night, Francis has dreamed of being human. The dreams are happy, a welcome respite from the stresses of being a nation. Though each dream is different, one thing remains constant: the presence of Arthur.  As the dreams become more frequent, however, Francis finds it harder and harder to wake up, preferring the simpleness of his dream life with Arthur to that of the waking world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by axiul on tumblr.

A warm breeze swept over the hill, rustling Arthur’s hair against Francis’s cheek. Francis sighed into the feather-soft, golden locks, muttering sweet nothings into the other’s ear.

It was a perfect day.

The two were sprawled out under an old sycamore, tangled together on a handwoven blanket Francis had had for years. Their shoes had been kicked off hours ago and now sat in disarray at the foot of the blanket. A picnic basket, now empty, had been placed carefully among the roots of the tree. The grass beneath them was cool and lush and _alive,_ springing up in a delicate carpet that spread from the tree and eventually bloomed into a vast field of yellow flowers, stretching as far as the eye could see across the French countryside. Sunlight filtered through the intricate weave of the tree’s branches, casting dappled shadows onto the pair. Every time a ray of light caught Arthur’s eyes, Francis’s heart fluttered.

It was surreal. How had Francis gotten this lucky?

Arthur shifted and grumbled something about how Francis was a mushy, romantic buffoon, and Francis smiled, pulling the Englishman closer.

_Oh, don’t give me that. You love me, poetic words and all._

Arthur only scowled in response, offering no further objection, and Francis knew it was true. He’d always known it, but only now were things finally, _finally_ , beginning to come together the way he’d always dreamed. He glanced down at Arthur’s pouting face, which was only succeeding just enough in hiding the hopeless smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was too much, and feeling his chest flood with warmth, Francis pressed soft kisses to the Arthur’s cheeks, moving up and peppering them around his nose, his eyelids, his forehead.

Arthur groaned in half-hearted protest, but Francis didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Arthur was secretly smiling. All the tension in his muscles eased as he relaxed again back at Arthur’s side. He was in heaven, his fingers finding Arthur's and intertwining, as he drifted off for an afternoon nap.

When he opened his eyes, he felt his heart break.

He was not lounging under the leaves and the sun and the cloudless sky, nor was he even in the bed of the countryside cottage, but tangled in the sheets of the bed in his old Paris apartment.

It had all been a dream.

This was just the latest in a long string of dreams. They had begun simply—just a glimpse of Arthur smiling at him from across the room, or Francis walking down the aisle of a grocery store with the feeling that someone else was there with him, just out of sight. Gradually, the dreams had become more complex, evolving from mere flashes of another life to a story that seemed to unfold itself, first once or twice a week, and now, nearly every night.

Francis never really got over the disappointment of waking up every morning to find that the life he thought he had been living had merely been the nightly manifestation of his imagination. It was really beginning to wear on him.

His real life was not so full of sunshine and happiness. In real life, Arthur did not love him. In real life, Arthur was a reluctant companion who did not seem to mind the Frenchman’s presence, but made it very clear that he had no desire to return any of his advances. So of course, Francis would always laugh the rejections off—pretend like his flirting was just another way to make Arthur angry. It was cover enough, but it still hurt. As much as Francis enjoyed Arthur paying attention to him—any attention to him—he would have been overjoyed if, just once, Arthur would join him for a dinner date, or accept one of Francis’s compliments without objection. In his dreams, Francis found that Arthur, while he was still very much _Arthur_ , returned his affections.

In not a single one of Francis’s dreams had Arthur been absent.

Oh, he was so hopeless. It had been centuries since he and Arthur first met. Arthur had always been a part of his life. The only stable, unmoving constant. And it had been the thought of losing him—as the Luftwaffe descended upon Britain in hoards and as Francis sat helpless, his own capital already overrun by the Germans—that he began to come to terms with what he’d always known:

He was in love.

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, after Francis had managed to drag himself out of bed and get himself dressed, he found himself strolling down a winding, Parisian street. At one time, this street would have been filled with horse drawn carriages, carting around those lucky enough to call themselves nobility. Go back a little further, and it would have been filled with protesters, demanding their rights and a change of government. Go back even further, and it would have been filled with oxcarts, carrying away the dead who had succumbed to the plague. Today, it was filled with cars and pedestrians alike, all minding their own business, unaware of the history that had transpired where they now stood.

Being a nation, as rewarding as it could be, was very, very tiring.

He passed a shop with a television in the window. On the screen were flashing images of smoke and flashing lights, people running and screaming, headlines that spoke of terrorism and death and lives cut short before their time. Though the scenes were not from _his_ country, how could he not feel pain just at watching them? One day, the next war would be at his doorstep, the next fight for his existence staring at him through a haze of dust and smoke. How long until he found himself fighting that war? How long until he would feel each and every bloody death his citizens suffered in the conflict?

It was all a part of the job, he supposed…

But it was so much easier, he thought, to get lost in the world of his dreams, where he never felt the paranoia of a coming war, or the pain of a dying citizen, or the suffering, or the sickness. By now, he’d worked out that in these dreams, he _must_ be human, for he’d never once had to deal with any sort of nation business in his dreams. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, to live and die as a human? It was such a simple life, by comparison, and when he lived it in his dreams, he was truly happy.

The thought only seemed to depress him more. They were only dreams after all. They would never be real. He would never feel that same simplicity, living in a country cottage with Arthur, with no obligations or duties, having picnics under trees and caressing each other in the sunlight.

As the television cut to another video of an explosion in some far off land, Francis decided he’d had enough, and turned away, content, at this point, to return to the quiet solitude of his apartment.


	2. Tardiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets irritated at Francis, but not for the usual reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to be alternating points of view for this story because I feel that it's really going to work better in the later chapters. I discovered it just wouldn't work to have everything from Francis's POV. Sorry this chapter's a bit short!

Arthur glanced at his watch. Again.

This was getting ridiculous. How hard was it to arrive at a meeting on time?

Francis had been making a bad habit of it, as of late. For the past six months or so, every time Arthur tried to have a meeting with him, Francis would either show up painfully late, or not at all.

Arthur’s fingers tapped impatiently against the file of proposed trade deals that lay on the table. Francis had agreed to meet with him to discuss them before they went to government to be proposed formally. Though today’s meeting was supposed to be informal—just a discussion over lunch at a café in Calais across the strait—it would have been _appreciated_ if Francis would at least _show up_.

The fact that he seemed to have neglected to tell Arthur that he would be late or absent—frankly, it was just rude. Typical of a Frenchman.

Arthur was on his second cup of tea. How long had he been here? Thirty minutes? An hour? A young French waitress stopped by to ask if he needed anything, to which he replied no, he was just waiting for someone. The waitress nodded and went about her business, but Arthur could see her glance in his direction every once in a while. How embarrassing. She must have thought he was some poor old chap who’d been led on by a date who had no plans to show.

As much as he hated the comparison, it wasn’t that far off.

Finally, as Arthur finished his second cup of tea, Francis dragged his sorry self through the door and finally— _finally—_ joined him at his table near the window overlooking the strait.

“How nice of you to finally show up!” Arthur scolded, thrusting up his sleeve to look at his watch. “An hour and fifteen minutes late! Really, Francis?”

“I thought you’d enjoy the extra time free of me,” Francis snorted, pulling the menu towards him in that snobby, irritating way of his so that he could continue to do anything but acknowledge what Arthur had brought him there to do. Then, as if the entire god forsaken country was against him (which it was, considering it _was_ France), the waitress, seeing that Arthur’s companion had finally arrived, came over to take Francis’s order and delay their meeting even further.

Arthur groaned and waited for Francis to finish his ordering and subsequent small talk with the waitress. Francis was doing this on purpose. He _knew_ it. When the waitress had finally finished her conversation with Francis and gone about her business, Arthur continued.

“I’d tell you you’re infuriating, but you already know that, you cheeky sod,” Arthur grumbled, pulling the file towards him so they could finally get down to business. “Do I even want to know why you were so damn late?”

“Probably not,” Francis shrugged. Arthur fumed. It was like Francis didn’t even care!

“Actually—you know what?” Arthur decided as he began to descend into a rant. “I do want to know. Francis, this has gone on long enough! You can hate me all you want, but could you at _least_ show up on time to do business? This is getting absolutely ridiculous. An _hour_ and _fifteen_ minutes, Francis! That’s the latest you’ve been!”

“ _Désolé,_ ” Francis muttered, leaning back in his chair almost as if he were bored. “I slept late.”

“You—” Arthur almost couldn’t believe his ears. “Of all the lazy—Francis that’s something _America_ would do!” He searched the Frenchman’s face for any sign of satisfaction, sure this had to be a joke, but what he saw instead was weariness. Maybe he wasn’t lying. Arthur decided to lay off a bit. “And—my god. You look terrible, Francis. Are you still in that dump of an apartment? No wonder you’re not sleeping, with all that street noise. Would it kill you to move somewhere quieter? You can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s not the noise,” Francis said with a wave of his hand. He didn’t elaborate.

“Well—take some sleep pills or something,” Arthur suggested. “Get a new mattress. Whatever you need to do.”

“My dear  _Angleterre,_ always looking out for me,” Francis cooed obnoxiously, with a wink. Arthur rolled his eyes. At least it was a glimpse of the Francis he was used to. He much preferred that to the tired, uncaring sluggard who had come through the door.

“Fantastic,” Arthur cleared his throat. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss those trade deals…”


	3. Numb

Even though Francis had been expecting it, Arthur’s anger at him didn’t hurt any less. Francis had purposefully delayed going to his meeting with Arthur, knowing any interaction with Arthur in waking life was going to be a slap in the face—another reminder that Francis couldn’t have him. Why bother himself with going to a meeting where Arthur was going to scold him constantly and make fun of every word that left his mouth? It was much easier to stay home and sleep, so he could live in the world where Arthur loved him and said those things only in jest.

So he’d taken some sleep pills and gone back to bed, hoping Arthur would think he’d arrived on the wrong day and go home. Eventually, however, the sleep pills wore off, and Francis found himself at the Calais café. After his initial stalling with the waitress so that he wouldn’t have to face Arthur, Francis actually sat and cooperated, hoping to get through the meeting as quickly as possible so he could go home and go back to sleep.

By the time the next EU meeting rolled around, Francis found that his dreams with Arthur dominated his thoughts. Though he’d gotten himself out of bed and over to the conference, he couldn’t focus on the matters at hand. Every time Arthur spoke, Francis watched, admiring the way his eyes shone when he knew he was making a good point, the twitch of his mouth every time he disagreed, the way his eyebrows drew together when he was thinking about something very hard. In every way, he _was_ the Arthur that Francis knew from his dreams, except that the real Arthur was not his and never would be. And yet, Francis couldn’t stop himself from admiring Arthur, even with how much it hurt.

Most of the EU meeting passed with Francis entirely oblivious to what was being discussed. Nations snapped at him to pay attention as they noticed him sitting silently with a distant look on his face. Could they really blame him? He was in love and mourning all at the same time.

The whole thing was beginning to take a toll on him. When he got home, any waking time was spent engulfed in grief over a life that would never be his. He sat at his kitchen table with his head in his hands, his coffee (not tea, because it would have reminded him of Arthur) sitting untouched as he tried to relive the dreams he’d just awoken from, only to find that the memories were not as sharp or emotionally fulfilling as the real thing.

Any time he woke up, he swallowed a dose of sleeping pills, hoping to extend the amount of time he slept. He dreamed of him and Arthur travelling the world, of him and Arthur smearing frosting on each other’s faces on their birthdays, and of him and Arthur curled in each other’s arms on a cold winter’s night. He dreamed of Arthur’s hand in his, of Arthur’s choppy hair brushing against his face in bed, of Arthur’s half-hearted scowl after Francis said something mind-numbingly romantic. He even dreamed of Arthur telling him about how stupid Francis’s choice of suits would be for their wedding. He couldn’t help it. He had to sleep. He had to live that life in his dreams because it was exactly what he’d always wanted for himself and it was the only way he could have it. Trying to obtain it in his waking life was pointless. Things like that—they simply didn’t _work_ between nations. Francis felt that he and Arthur were a prime example of why. After centuries of conflict, there was no hope of Arthur ever seeing him as a lover.

When his body built up an immunity to one sleep pill, he’d switch to another. When none of them worked, he began drinking, letting the alcohol take the edge off his despair. Francis drank himself numb on wine and bourbon and things he never would have drunk under normal circumstances. He was desperate to find a way to sleep longer, so that his dream life would essentially become his _real_ life.

Unfinished paperwork began to pile up on his desk. Calls from his boss went unanswered. Meetings were missed entirely, and people began to turn up at his Paris apartment in concern.

Antonio tried to get him to see a doctor. “Francis, you look miserable,” he said when Francis answered the door one day. “You need to see somebody.”

“I’ll be fine…” Francis slurred, trying to shut the door so he could go back to his alcohol fueled hallucinations in peace, but Antonio stuck his foot in to prevent it from shutting.

“I’m serious,” Antonio said sternly, trying to push his way in. “You’re going to really hurt yourself.”

“I’m a nation!” Francis sang, throwing the door open suddenly to make sure Antonio was hearing him. “I can’t die! I-I…I’m going…going on strike!” he ranted, hardly noticing as Antonio shoved past him and into the kitchen. “It’s ri— _di_ culous! Maybe I don’t wanna live f’rever! I’ll strike until God ch…anges his mind!” Francis puffed out his chest in accomplishment. Antonio would have to understand after such a great speech! “How about that?”

Where had Antonio gone? Francis looked left and then right, his vision blurry. The slow _glug glug_ of alcohol being poured down the drain reached his ears, but he didn’t register it for what it was. “Are you looking for a drink, _mon ami_?”

“ _Dios mío_ …” Antonio murmured as he found yet another bottle in the cabinets above Francis’s sink. “How much do you have?”

“Enough for everyone!” Francis proclaimed gleefully. “Let’s have a party!” He threw his hands up in the air, but lost his balance and stumbled to the floor. Antonio sighed.

“You’re too drunk to even stand…” he said, pulling Francis up the best he could and guiding him to the bedroom, where he helped Francis into bed.

He must have passed out after that, because the next thing he remembered was Antonio scolding him the next morning for the amount of alcohol he’d found in Francis’s apartment.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” he asserted, now that Francis was sober enough to understand him.

“It won’t help,” Francis insisted, brushing off Antonio’s offers to drive him there. “You can’t make me go.”

And he couldn’t. Despite everything, Francis would not budge, and eventually Antonio was forced to admit defeat.

“I hope you’ll reconsider,” the Spaniard said as Francis walked him to the door. “You can’t keep living like this.”

Francis agreed grimly in his mind. It wasn’t worth living in a world where he was this miserable.

“Thank you for your company,” he said simply as he shut the door.

He could hear Antonio sigh and mutter, “ _Qué lástima_ ,” on the other side as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qué lástima = What a shame.


	4. Search

The phone dialed for nearly a full minute with no answer before finally going to voicemail. It was the second time today that Arthur’s call to Francis had gone unanswered.

At this point, Arthur was not sure what to do about Francis, who seemed to have grown more and more antisocial over the past several months. It had started with being late to meetings, then _missing_ meetings—important ones, a few of which he had been meant to host.

Now he wouldn’t answer his phone or return Arthur’s calls. Was it just him? As aggravating as Francis was, Arthur hated to think he’d somehow upset him. He tried to think if anything he’d done recently could have driven Francis to avoid him, but he could think of nothing beyond their usual bickering. Maybe Francis was just being melodramatic and giving him the cold shoulder. It would have been usual for him anyway.

He rang a third time, and this time, he left a voicemail. It was also possible that Francis had simply been busier than usual lately, navigating an array of social and political problems beyond the scenes, and was too busy to answer the phone and had to miss a meeting every now and then. It was surely nothing to worry about.

But a few days later, when Francis still had not so much as sent him a text, Arthur began to worry. By now, it had been over month since he and Francis last spoke.

He began making calls to people he knew Francis spoke to often. Alfred said he had not spoken to Francis in a while, but since they were across the ocean from each other after all, Arthur wasn’t too surprised. Matthew, who had always been a bit closer to Francis, said he last heard from Francis a month before, and that Francis had seemed a bit down at the time. Arthur trusted Matthew’s judgement and asked him to elaborate.

“Well,” Matthew said, “He just seemed kind of sad. Maybe lonely. It was over the phone, so it’s kind of hard to tell just from that, you know?”

“Did he say anything specific?” Arthur asked. “Anything about why he felt that way?”

“Oh, no,” Matthew answered. “It was just the impression I got, really. He just sounded that way over the phone. He didn’t say anything specific about it.”

It wasn’t what Arthur wanted to hear, but it did help him build a better mental picture of what had been going on with Francis. The last time Francis and Arthur had met as just the two of them, in the Calais café several months ago, Arthur had noticed something off about Francis. At the time, Arthur had chalked it up to tiredness. Despite being more or less immortal, it wasn’t uncommon for nations to become exhausted from the day-to-day struggles they faced both at home and abroad. With this new information he was getting from Matthew, however, it was becoming clear to Arthur that Francis was grappling with something much deeper than mere tiredness.

He thanked Matthew for his help, then hung up.

Thinking that Francis may have been more open with people he was able to talk to in person, Arthur dialed Antonio’s number next.

After a few rings, a voice answered on the other end. “ _Sí, digame_.”

“Spain.” Arthur cleared his throat. It wasn’t often that he called Antonio for anything other than business. “It’s England.”

“Ahh, _Inglaterra!”_ Antonio trilled cheerfully. “My old friend—”

“We’re not friends,” Arthur interrupted before Antonio could go on. He didn’t want to be talked to as if they were. Arthur knew how Antonio liked to make small talk, and he really wasn’t really in the mood. He gave an awkward cough. “Look, I, uh—I’m calling because I was wondering if you’d spoken to Francis lately.”

There was an uncomfortably long pause on the other end, and for a moment, Arthur wondered if he’d been heard.

“Francis?” Antonio said at last. “ _Qué sorpresa!_ You are on a first name basis?” Arthur’s jaw clenched. The disdain was audible in Antonio’s voice, scorning Arthur quietly from beneath the surface.

“Just—just answer my question!” Arthur demanded impatiently, in no mood for this subtle mocking. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him and frankly I’m beginning to get a bit worried.”

“You haven’t noticed how depressed he’s been lately?” Antonio chided, clicking his tongue. “So much for being on a first name basis.”

“Spain!”

“Well, you should know,” Antonio went on, “that he’s developed quite a drinking problem lately. Drinking and sleep pills. When I went to visit him last week, I must have dumped at least a dozen bottles out in the sink. He refuses to see a doctor.”

Arthur was quiet as he let Antonio’s words sink in. Who did Francis think he was? If he was feeling so terribly then—then he should have told _Arthur_! Arthur, at least, had been under the impression that he and Francis were reluctant friends. Not the open sort who were always going out and telling each other everything, but friends nonetheless. After all, they had known each other for centuries. They knew each other arguably better than anyone else. Why on earth was Francis going to the bloody Spaniard instead of him?

“Why would he tell you and not me?” Arthur griped into the receiver, sounding wounded.

“Maybe because you seem to not care!” Antonio shot back, suddenly angry. “You only talk to him when it’s convenient for you! If you are such good friends, then why do you use his first name, but not know when he’s been bogged down in this depression for months?”

“Because I didn’t _know!”_ Arthur replied, his chest feeling as if it were gripped in ice. It was the guilt beginning to set in. As much as he hated to hear them, Antonio’s words rang a note of truth. How often did he call up Francis just to talk? How often did they have meetings that were not strictly for business? Arthur had even thought Francis was just being his theatrical, sensational self, toying with Arthur simply because he knew it annoyed him. But Antonio made it sound as if Francis had been feeling this way for a while. If Francis and Arthur were really such good friends, then how come Arthur had had no idea that Francis was struggling with such depression? “How was I supposed to know if he didn’t tell me?”

“Oh, please, _Inglaterra_ , anyone with a heart could have seen it! Or even eyes for that matter!”

At that point, Arthur slammed the office phone back down onto the receiver. He felt as if all the blood had surely drained from his face. His shoulders were heavy with shame. Could he have really been that blind? Or was Francis purposefully trying to keep his problems from Arthur?

Whatever the answer, he wasn’t about to let Francis keep it from him any longer.

The next day, Arthur walked up the steps to the doorway of Francis’s Parisian apartment. The air was still moist from the rain earlier that morning, and the clouds continued to hang low in the sky. Arthur rapped his knuckles against the damp wood of the door and waited. After a few moments, there was no answer, so he knocked again. Surely Francis was home. Where would he be off to on a rainy morning like this? He waited again, and still no one answered.

“Francis?” Arthur called, beating the door harder this time. “Francis, open up.”

He listened closely. No noise came from inside the apartment. Figuring it was worth a shot, Arthur tried the doorknob, and to his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. He pushed, and the old door creaked open.

His nose was hit instantly by the mixed scent of mildew and alcohol, and his heart began to race. Something was very wrong. Francis had always been so concerned about having his living space in perfect condition, like a work of art. To let it deteriorate so much—this wasn’t like him at all.

“Francis?” Arthur called as he went deeper into the apartment, stepping around trash and glass bottles sticky with the remnants of their contents. He found roaches crawling up the side of the rubbish bin in the kitchen and saw a mouse scurry across the floor from the corner of his eye. If Francis was home, he was living in an absolute dump.

After searching every room, Arthur concluded that Francis wasn’t in the apartment. It almost came as a relief, since living in such a place was surely a massive health hazard. But if Francis wasn’t here, then where was he?

Arthur went back down to the street and drove the several hour journey to Francis’s country cottage. Perhaps he had simply wanted to be alone in the privacy of the countryside.

But Arthur was met with a similar sight—a neglected lawn, overgrown flowerbeds, and an empty driveway. Unless Francis had been dropped off, he wasn’t there. Just in case, Arthur tried the door—which was locked—and peered through all the windows for some sign of Francis. The property looked like it hadn’t been touched in months, so Arthur found it safe to assume Francis wasn’t there either. But if he wasn’t in his Paris apartment, nor his countryside getaway, then where?

Francis couldn’t just go _missing_. He was a nation with people who needed him! Even if he was becoming a hermit, he still had to take care of his people. Arthur pulled out his phone and dialed Francis’s boss, thinking surely Francis would still be coming in to fill out paperwork and file reports. Instead, Arthur was informed that Francis hadn’t come in for work in several weeks. Arthur started to panic. If the French president didn’t know where his own nation was, then who did?

Arthur willed himself to take a few deep breaths. Francis was a nation, so that made him immortal. Wherever he was, he had to be alive, didn’t he? Despite however he was feeling as a person, his nation was still there—his government still functioning, his people still going about their days, his sovereignty intact. There was no reason for him to be dying. He was just…missing.

Arthur drove a few miles to the nearest village and checked in for the night at a quaint little inn. From there, he settled down on the bed and did the only other thing he could think of to do—he pulled up every social media account he had and asked if anyone, _anyone_ at all, had any idea where Francis might be.

_France is missing,_ he wrote. _He’s not at either of his usual residences. It seems like the last time he was seen was a week ago by Spain._

All he could do from there was sit and wait. Despite all his self-assurances that Francis couldn’t possibly be dead or dying, part of him was still sick with worry. What if this was just the beginning of the fall of France? What if this was just the first symptom of deterioration before the entire French state began to break down and imploded on itself?

Within minutes, his social media accounts blew up with people asking, _He’s missing? France is missing?_ It didn’t do anything to help him find Francis, and Arthur responded with a few unintentionally nasty replies.

_Lol did your cold demeanor finally scare him off for good?_ Alfred asked.

_You bloody useless tosser! This is serious!_ Arthur fumed, and then blocked him. Leave it to Alfred to make a joke out of a serious situation.

The next several hours were dominated by Matthew begging him to unblock Alfred (apparently the little turdmuncher was crying to him about how awful and mean Arthur was being and how he hadn’t meant it and how he just wanted to help find Francis) and other nations saying they also had not heard from Francis in a while. None of it was helping.

Until, finally, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“ _Hei_ , it’s me,” said a voice in a Norwegian accent. Lukas. “I saw France a few days ago.”

“Really?” Arthur felt his heart jump. Maybe this conversation would lead to a new clue. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Um…no,” Lukas replied, the tone in his voice suggesting he _knew_ that wasn’t what Arthur wanted to hear. “But—listen. He was here a few days ago because he wanted me to come up with some magic spell to make him sleep forever.”

Arthur was silent for a moment as he processed Lukas’s words. “What?”

“ _Ja_ , and—I told him I wasn’t going to do it for him,” Lukas went on. “Because, you know. That’s stupid and dangerous. Magic isn’t a plaything. But anyway. When I wouldn’t do it, he went to Romania to ask him to do it. So. You might ask him.”

Arthur let the words sink in for a moment. A spell to make him sleep forever? What was Francis even thinking? Arthur didn’t want to believe it. What could be so bad about Francis’s waking life that he would actually go out and search for a way to make himself sleep forever? It defied logic!

Except, it didn’t—and Arthur thought he had an idea why Francis would do such a thing. Francis had always been enamored by humans. “They’re just so charming!” he would always say. “Their lives are so short, but they live them so fully. Can you imagine?” To Francis, humans were the most beautiful works of art that could have ever been created. He loved his people more than anything, sometimes so much that he would get attached to particular individuals and mourn their deaths when he inevitably outlived them. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if Francis secretly wished he was human. After all, he often talked about doing things the humans did—falling in love, getting married, starting a family. The closest Francis had ever been to any of those was a few poorly arranged political unions, a failed proposal to Arthur (who refused to marry Francis for such a stupid reason as his boss being upset with him), and various colonies who had come and gone, none of them relying on Francis quite the way a human child would.

It was beginning to dawn on Arthur that maybe—and this made sense the more he considered it—Francis had fallen so deep into this hole that he no longer wished to be a nation, and was now seeking a way to sleep forever because it was the closest he could get to dying. If he could not die, he would sleep—and dream his way to the life he had always wanted for himself.

“I see…” Arthur said, his voice shaking. “Well, thank you, Lukas. I suppose I’ll just have to call Romania and see.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lukas said. “I hope you find him.”

Arthur thanked him again, hung up, and dialed Romania.

“ _Alo?_ ” the voice on the other end answered.

“Hello, Vlad. Have you heard yet?” Arthur asked.

“Heard what?” Vlad replied, clearly out of the loop, as always.

“Francis is missing,” Arthur informed him, rolling his eyes. “Lukas said he’d come to him asking for some ridiculous spell and that he might have come to you as well. Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Vlad confirmed. “Yep. He came up in here asking for some spell to make him sleep forever or something.”

Arthur waited, thinking Vlad would elaborate, but he didn’t. “Well? Is he still there?”

“Nope,” Vlad said. “I tried the spell, but it only made him sleep for the night. He woke up the next morning. Guess we need to get together for some more magic practices, huh?”

“Vlad,” Arthur prompted, frustrated that the Romanian was more focused on his failed magic than the fact that Francis was missing. “Where did Francis go?”

“Huh? Oh,” Vlad must have shrugged, because there was a short pause. “I dunno. He left a couple of days ago.”

Arthur was about to end the conversation there, but then he had the thought to ask if Vlad knew why Francis was asking for such a spell. “Did Francis mention, by chance, why he was trying to sleep forever?”

“Uh…yeah,” Vlad replied sounding a bit uncomfortable. Arthur got the feeling that maybe whatever Francis had told Vlad was very personal, and Vlad was hesitant to share it. “He said he’d been having these really nice dreams. Wonderful dreams, he said. He’d fallen in love and gotten married and was living a very happy life in those dreams, but then he’d wake up, and it just wasn’t the same. So, he was looking for a way to keep living in that world, I guess.”

So Arthur had been right. Francis _was_ mourning the fact that he wasn’t human. “But he didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“I see. Well, thank you anyway,” Arthur said, and then he hung up.

Arthur fell back onto the bed, his heart still racing. Francis apparently wanted to sleep forever and no one knew where he might be heading next. How desperate was he to live in this ridiculous dream of his? No, no. Arthur scolded himself for thinking that. It wasn’t ridiculous. Life as a nation _was_ pretty damn lonely. Falling in love and settling down with someone was nearly impossible. And Francis was a hopeless romantic. He would want something happy and beautiful and _perfect_ , like in the books and movies. He probably wanted to settle down in a cute country home with a garden and a cobblestone walkway. He probably wanted a husband or wife, and children to raise with them. It was a very pleasant dream, Arthur thought, and he couldn’t deny that he’d thought about it a few times himself. In fact, maybe Arthur _did_ want it for himself, but knew better than to try to attain it. Francis was stupid for pursuing it in this way. If there was any nation that could make a romantic relationship work, it was Francis. There was no reason _he_ needed to be out looking for a way to sleep forever. But he was, and Arthur had no idea how far he was willing to go to live this dream of his.

As much as he claimed to hate Francis, Arthur couldn’t bear the think of Francis—bright, cheerful Francis—driving himself to what was essentially as close as a nation could get to suicide. What had triggered this sudden bout of depression, and why was it so severe that he didn’t want to live in this world anymore? Arthur’s mind drifted back to Antonio’s words, and another wave of guilt washed over him. How could he have been so oblivious? Maybe there wasn’t anything he could have done, or maybe there was. If there was, he was guilty for not finding it. The thought dominated his mind, and Arthur found himself tossing and turning restlessly for the remainder of the night.

As long as Francis was trying to find eternal sleep, Arthur would find himself getting none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sí, digame" = "Yes, talk to me."
> 
> "Qué sorpresa!" = "What a surprise!"
> 
> I feel like because of their history, Spain and England wouldn't get along very well. Also, Spain is just a protective friend.


	5. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes...it has been almost two years, but this fic is getting an update. Enjoy.

Francis shifted uncomfortably in front of the ornate door. How long had he been standing here, exactly?

It hadn’t been an easy journey. For one, Yao made himself a very difficult man to find. Francis wasn’t even entirely sure where he was. After stepping off the plane in Beijing with nothing but a backpack containing a few changes of clothes, he’d gone to Yao’s Beijing apartment. He knocked on the door and waited, but no one ever answered. The apartment manager downstairs told him the man who lived there was often gone for weeks at a time, and that he hadn’t seen him lately.

“I think he only comes here for business,” the man told him in Chinese. “I believe his true home must be somewhere else.”

From there, Francis had taken a train, then a bus, and then walked for several miles down a dirt road in the rain, mud sticking to his shoes. He now found himself on the outskirts of a tiny village, deep in the Chinese countryside. He didn’t know its name—only that the faded characters on the rickety sign down the road matched the ones Yao listed as his hometown on Facebook.

The villagers had directed him to this house when he showed them Yao’s picture on his phone. It was old fashioned, for sure. Like the other dwellings in the village, it was constructed of stone and wood, and had clearly been built many years ago.  Moss and mold grew in any crevice they could find on the exterior. Rain dripped from the flared roof, dribbling down around Francis as he stood in silence on the doorstep.

After a long pause, he rapped his knuckles against the door and waited.

“ _Děng yí xià!_ ” Yao’s voice called from somewhere within the house. Francis breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was in the right place.

After a moment, there was a sound of shuffling behind the door. Finally, the door opened a crack, Yao’s face peering out. Francis had just begun to raise his hand in greeting when Yao pulled back in surprise.

“Yaaah!” he cried, seeming somewhat horrified to have Francis suddenly show up in his remote village. “What are you doing here? Did you not think to call in advance? You can’t just invite yourself over! I haven’t cleaned or anything!”

“Sorry,” Francis muttered, the hints of a fake smile he’d put on for his greeting fading. “I did call, but you didn’t answer.”

Yao was silent for a moment, his eyes flitting away from Francis for a moment as he thought. “You did? Where is my phone?” He turned and stared back into the house as if the phone might be laying in plain sight. “Oh…tch,” he huffed, turning back to face Francis. “I must have left it with Xiao when I went to visit him a few days ago. I guess since I wasn’t expecting any calls I didn’t notice.”

“It’s all right…” Francis sighed, somewhat unsurprised. China had never been one for keeping up with new technology. Even with all the advances of the 20th and 21st centuries, he still preferred to do things the traditional way. He still lived in this old house in rural China, still hung his clothes on a line outside, still practiced traditional medicine…

Which was why Francis was here, after all.

“Well, why don’t you come in?” Yao said after an uncomfortable silence. “Aiyaa, you must be freezing…you’re soaked!” He stepped aside and motioned for Francis to enter.

Francis slipped off his shoes in the entry way and slid them next to Yao’s. The entry way was very modest, but it opened up almost immediately to a larger living area. While the outside of the house was very old, the inside was well-kept and neat. The walls were a deep red, polished wood that gleamed with the golden reflection of a few dim lamps throughout the room. There were a few couches and a low table in the middle. Statues and wall paintings of various creatures adorned much of the open space. Yao ducked out for a moment as Francis was admiring his home, and reappeared a moment later with a towel and an old bathrobe.

“Please, have a seat somewhere and dry yourself off while I make some tea,” Yao said, handing Francis the towel and robe. “And when I come back you can tell me what brings you here.”

With that, Yao again disappeared, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

It was actually nice to be somewhere so remote. After meeting with Lukas and Vlad, Francis had felt as if he were being judged for his mental and physical state. Lukas must have thought he was mad—showing up at his house unannounced, hair tangled and eyes dark—begging for a spell to put him to sleep. And Vlad—he just didn’t seem to understand. While he had attempted a spell to put Francis to sleep, it had only lasted the night. When Francis had expressed that he needed more, that it needed to work for longer, Vlad had simply shrugged, suggesting he try sleep pills. Neither of them understood the gravity of the situation. Neither of them understood that he _needed_ this. At least out here, in rural China where no one knew him and no one knew _where_ he was, he was pleasantly isolated from his fellow nations.

He stripped himself down naked and dried himself with the towel Yao had brought him. The rain had rinsed off the layer of grime beginning to form on his skin from days of travel with few showers. He did feel a bit better, especially once he pulled on the bathrobe Yao had brought for him.

Yao still had not returned, so Francis pulled out his phone. Twelve-percent battery… Well, that was fine. Hopefully he’d be asleep soon anyway, and then he wouldn’t need it anymore. There were several messages from England and other nations, none of which Francis had answered. Maybe he should send out something quick before his phone died, just to say goodbye… Then again, maybe it would be better if everyone just forgot about him entirely. Then he could just fade away into nonexistence—quietly—as nations often did when their time was up.

Soon, Yao was back with a tray, two cups of tea, and a few tea biscuits. He took a seat across from Francis and took a sip of his tea, relishing it for a moment before looking up at his guest.

“So tell me…” Yao began slowly. “What brings you all the way out here?”

Francis wasn’t quite sure where to begin. “I need a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

Francis averted his eyes, choosing instead to direct his gaze into his cup of tea. The liquid within was a soft, calming green, not unlike the landscape outside.

“I need...medicine.” Oh, how silly he felt. Yao was no fool. Had he honestly expected to come here and get some magic potion that would put him to sleep? Yao was going to judge him for being a naïve youngster and tell him to go home.

“Ah…” Yao hesitated, eyeing Francis with concern. Surely Francis’s disheveled appearance betrayed that _something_ was wrong. “For what, exactly?”

“Sleep.”

“You can’t sleep?”

“N-no…I can,” Francis clarified. “But I need to sleep _more.”_

Yao brought one leg up to cross it over the other. “Well, how much more sleep do you need to get? I could make you something, but I need to know how strong to make it.”

“…A lot,” Francis answered vaguely. Maybe if he was indirect enough, he could get what he wanted without cluing Yao in to what he was doing.

“A lot?” Yao echoed skeptically, his head angling toward Francis as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “How much exactly?”

“Just…a lot,” Francis said, again unhelpfully. He took a hurried sip of his tea, as if doing so would somehow protect him from Yao’s increasingly suspicious gaze.

“Francis,” Yao said sharply, slightly annoyed. “How long are you wanting to sleep for?”

Francis dared to glance up at Yao, only to see him staring down unwavering, like a parent demanding an answer from a child. He wasn’t going to be able to avoid giving Yao a truthful answer.

“For…ever,” he said softly.

Yao was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry…what did you say?”

“Forever.”

“Forever?”

“Yes…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Yao said, his features tightening with concern. “Are you exaggerating? You want to sleep ‘forever,’ as in a very long time? Or you do not want to wake up, ever?”

Unable to admit to the latter, Francis answered with his silence. Coming here was a mistake. What did he think he was going to accomplish?

When Francis did not answer, Yao leaned in closer. “Francis. What is going on? Why do you want to sleep forever?”

“It’s personal,” Francis muttered tersely. “I’m sorry, I think I should go.” At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the remote loneliness of the Chinese countryside. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he really _could_ fade away. He placed his teacup back onto the tray, and started to stand, but Yao shot out a hand and pulled him back down.

“No,” Yao said firmly as he made sure Francis planted himself back down into his seat. “It’s not about the sleep, is it? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Francis sat in still silence. Was Yao really going to make him confess about all his dreams, right here? Where to even begin?

“I’ve…been having dreams,” he began quietly, refusing to meet Yao’s gaze, though he could still feel the other’s eyes on him.

“What sorts of dreams?” Yao pressed, his hand still grasping Francis’s arm, though his grip had softened now.

“Very pleasant ones.”

Francis could see Yao nodding slowly out of the corner of his eye.

“And what about these dreams makes them so pleasant?”

“I’m human and Ar—” Francis answered without missing a beat, but quickly stopped himself.

“And what?”

“…And I just wish I could experience more of them,” he finished quickly, unwilling to mention Arthur’s unfailing presence in his dreams. He managed to lift his eyes up to meet Yao’s momentarily.

Yao eyed him with a mixture of concern and pity. “So, let me get this straight—you want to sleep forever, so your life can become these dreams?”

Francis nodded slowly, hoping Yao understood his dilemma. He must, mustn’t he? After all, China had been around so long—it was hard to imagine him _not_ having this sentiment at one time or another.

But after a pause, Yao replied, “Dreaming more of being human will not make you human.”

Francis felt his heart sink. “I know,” he sighed. “But it’s the next best thing. I have always wanted that life for myself.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall, pattering softly against the windows and trickling audibly from the roof. It was somewhat surreal, Francis thought. Almost like a dream in itself.

“There must be something about this life that makes you happy,” Yao said after a moment.

“There’s nothing,” Francis muttered forlornly.

“But there _must_ be,” Yao insisted. “You’re not just dreaming that you _are_ human, but doing nothing more than sitting around being human are you? It’s not just the act of _being_ human that makes you happy. There must be something else. Something that humans do. Fall in love? Raise families?”

“Something like that…” Francis affirmed.

“You may not be human, but you can feel the same way they can,” Yao went on.  “You feel love and happiness. A dream is the truest reflection of the soul. You mourn for something you are missing in _this_ life, and your dreams tell you so by filling in the gap. They’re showing you what you want the most, but it’s not just to be human, is it?”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Francis _did_ want to be human, but he wanted to be human with _Arthur._ Francis wanted to share that life with him. Fall in love with _him._ Raise a family with _him._ Sure, he had come close, with Matthew and Alfred and the occasional visit with the four of them together. And yet, there had always been something missing. Maybe it was just knowing that it could never work out—the thought had always kept Francis from growing too attached to Arthur or Matthew or anyone, because one day the French people would come first and his love for his family would have to come second. It was why he’d never told Arthur how he really felt. It was why he’d never even _tried_.

But Arthur’s love was what he wanted the most. Even a small taste of a life with Arthur—a tiny feeling of normalcy brought on by the regularity of their interactions, the tiniest feeling that Francis somehow mattered to him—was enough to make him miss a relationship that never truly was. It was the closest thing to being human he had.

“Maybe you can miss something you never had,” Francis mused, looking up at Yao at last. “As long as it’s something that matters enough.”

Yao took another sip of tea and eyed Francis with curiosity. “And is it the part about being human that matters most?”

“No,” Francis admitted. “It’s not.”

“Then why dwell on something that can never be?” Yao asked. “You can never be human, and sleeping forever will not change that. But these other things you dream about… if there is some chance of them being real to you, you should try to focus on those. In _this_ life.”

When Francis only responded with a slow nod, Yao finally released his grip on the other’s arm and sat back down in his seat.

“I’m sorry. I can see you don’t want to tell me the full story,” Yao confessed.

“No…you’re right,” Francis said sadly. “No matter how pleasant they are, they’ll never be real. Even if I dream the same dreams forever, they won’t be the same as the real thing. They only exist in my own head. And what I truly desire…it has to be shared.”

“With who?”

“With—”

There was a knock at the door, and Yao held up a finger to silence Francis mid-sentence. “Hold that thought,” he said as he rose to answer it.

Francis sighed, letting his head hang loosely from his neck as he stared down at his reflection in his tea. What a miserable creature he’d become…

His self-deprecating thoughts were quickly interrupted by a commotion in the entry way.

“You can’t just _barge_ in!” Yao cried out, apparently scuffling with someone in the doorway.

Francis finally looked up to see what all the fuss was about.

And making a beeline right towards him was Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Děng yí xià = wait a moment


End file.
